


Phoenix

by for_the_love_of_wolves



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Depression, Fire, Fluff, Getting Together, Guilt, Hair Washing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, Moral Ambiguity, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Rescue, Revenge, Scenting, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Bed, Sorry Not Sorry, Torture, Trauma, lots of difficult talks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/pseuds/for_the_love_of_wolves
Summary: “So this is what it’s like,” Stiles thinks, feeling strangely detached from himself. This is what it's like to see your life go up in flames."~Gerard sets fire to the Sheriff's house as a warning. Stiles and his Dad are caught in the burning building, with no chance of escape. Peter happens to be in the right spot to the right time. The aftermath is not pretty, but filled with a few important realisations.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Peter Hale, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 94
Kudos: 415





	1. Chapter 1

[Now]

So this is what it’s like, Stiles thinks, feeling strangely detached from himself. This is what it’s like to see your life go up in flames.

Maybe, it is fitting. Everything started with a fire, after all. It started in flames and it will end in flames. Isn’t it almost poetic?

Stiles watches the fire licking at the wall, the paper crinkling and blackening. The orange flickers consume a picture of his younger self. His smile crumples. It happens so fast. It took time to make that photo. Took time to get it into a frame and put it on the wall, with a nail and a hammer. It took time. Now, it is destroyed in moments. Reduced to ash. Just like everything else here will soon be ash. The fire is hungry. And with every bite it takes, it grows stronger.

A white curtain catches fire, floating as the flames climb up, up, up.

Stiles is mildly surprised about how loud the fire is. There is so much noise. Crackling, thundering, hissing, wheezing, groaning, sizzling. It is so loud. It is what makes the fire so scary, he thinks. The noise and how hungry the flames are. How fast they eat everything in their way.

Stiles wishes he wouldn’t be so alone with this. He can’t see his Dad. But he has to be somewhere behind him. Stiles can’t turn around on the chair he is bound to tightly, the ropes cutting into his arms and legs. He can't look for his Dad. Stiles guesses he is still unconscious, after one of the hunters beat him over the head with the handle of his gun and he collapsed. Well, at least his Dad isn’t going to watch Stiles die. That’s kind of a mercy, right?

Stiles feels strangely composed by now. Almost calm. In the beginning, when he realised what they were about to do, he freaked out. He struggled. He tried to scream for help through the gag and tried to get out of the ropes. But all he managed, was to almost tip the chair over.

There is no way out of this, he knows now. No way out. The house is burning down around them and Stiles can do nothing about it. He is just human.

He starts to feel lightheaded from the smoke. It is in every breath he takes. It makes his throat feel dry and raspy. Every breath is a struggle by now. Stiles thinks he will pass out from smoke inhalation before the flames reach him. Which is going to be a mercy, since burning alive must be one of the most painful sensations, one of the most horrible deaths.

Stiles knows too much about burning alive, because he read a lot about different ways to die. He had a phase, where he was obsessing over this topic. A phase of hyperfixation. And his Dad didn't like this one at all. Stiles carried heaps of books home from the library. Drowning, burning, suffocating … And near-death-experiences. He has never been really religious, so he doesn’t believe there’s a heaven or a hell. For a long time, he wanted to believe in reincarnation, because it was so damn fascinating, to think about being reborn as someone - or something - else.

Of course every single thing received a new meaning and more options, after Stiles learned that werewolves and other supernatural creatures are very real, just as magic - and after Peter came back from the dead.

Stiles vaguely wonders, if humans can get resurrected too. He doubts it.

* * *

* * *

[Back then]

“How was it like to be dead?” Stiles bursts out one calm afternoon, when everyone is chilling at Derek's loft, and wants to punch himself. He shouldn’t ask such a personal question. Damn his loose mouth. “Sorry. That was rude,” he murmurs.

Peter arches a brow and glances up from his book. “I don’t think it’s rude.” 

“Oh. Okay,” Stiles says, relieved. He quickly swallows the “So, how was it?” down, that wants to bubble up. Stupid mouth.

Peter lays the book away, stretches his legs and clears his throat. “I can tell you. But, you will probably be disappointed. Because it is not that special. It isn't spectacular. And I don’t know if my experience is in any way relatable for you, because, well, I am a werewolf and I wasn’t _dead_ -dead.”

“Not dead-dead,” Stiles nods and understands nothing, “Sure.”

Peter lays a finger on his chin and hums, eyes distanced. "It was like taking a long nap."

Stiles is in fact a bit disappointed. “For real?” he asks, frowning.

Peter nods. “Yes. Derek slashed my throat, and then I basically took a nap, until I heard the voices. I followed them and once I had an anchor in the real world - Lydia - I held on to it. That's it.”

"Oh," Stiles makes.

Peter smirks. “I knew you would be disappointed. I'm sorry, there's nothing more. But maybe you take comfort in the fact, that death isn't something you have to be scared of. Because ... you won't wake up to remember it. It is like a very deep and refreshing nap. And no one disturbs it," he says.

"Hm. Why did you come back?" Stiles asks and squirms. It's another way too personal question.

Peter arches a brow, but he does answer. “Spite, mostly," he shrugs and smirks.

“That can’t be all," Stiles says in disbelief. "I mean ... Come on. When you came back, you said it did cost you a lot of strength and it was a risk. Why risking it only out of spite? After all, you got the revenge you wanted, right?"  
  
Peter looks a bit thoughtful at that. A moment passes, with him tapping the finger against his chin, until he finally says slowly, “Maybe, I missed some things about life, no matter how miserable and unfulfilling it tends to be. Maybe, I wanted to do and see a lot of things I never got to do and see. So I tried to give myself another chance. It's not like I deserve it, but as you already know, my ego doesn't care about such things."

Stiles hums. That's an answer he can get behind. "I always thought it would be nice to be able to time travel. I would travel back in time to do all the things I couldn't do before," he muses.

Peter chuckles. "Yes. Time travel would be very convenient for a lot of things."

"Would you go back and save your family?" Stiles asks.

Peter's smirk falters and the crease between his eyes deepens. That's when Stiles knows it's one question too many. Peter doesn't answer it at all. Instead, he turns back to his book and Stiles feels like he should leave. So he does.

* * *

* * *

[Now]  
  


The fire has licked at the walls and door enough. It creeps all over the carpet and furniture now.

The flames blur in front of Stiles’ watering eyes.

He gets it now. Gets what Peter meant. There is so much Stiles wanted to do. He wanted to read more books. He wanted to see the world. He wanted to be someone. 

Gerard Argent decided he shouldn’t.

Gerard Argent decided to burn their house down with them still in it, decided to make them the first victims of his very own warpath.

Only moments ago, he crouched in front of Stiles, expression serious. “I don’t want you to think that this is personal, Stiles. I like you. You are smart. Too smart, unfortunately. I have to teach everyone a lesson. I have to show them what happens to humans who betray their own kind. You could have stayed away. Yet, you went on and on. You watched as my beautiful daughter was slaughtered by that _thing_. You helped the two teenage werewolves I caught to escape. You convinced my granddaughter to join your stupid little pack. Well, it’s over now. This is war, and everyone is going to see now, what that means.”

Stiles was scared. God, he was so scared. He wanted to see his Dad. Wanted to see that he was okay. But he could only stare into Gerard’s eyes and try to look brave. “Fuck you,” he hissed. “You are the real monsters. The Hales were just living their life. They were peaceful and they had no interest in killing anyone innocent. They were protecting the town. But you and your fucked up daughter just had to kill someone who was different, right? You are sick. She was too. Sick."

Gerard’s smile faltered. He looked disappointed. “You have no idea what you are talking about, Stiles. You are very confused. And brainwashed. But it’s okay. It soon will be over.” He nodded at one of his men, who stepped forward with a cloth. He forced it into Stiles’ mouth, no matter how much he tried to turn his head away.

“I think it is unlikely that one of your werewolf friends is around to notice what happens. I am not sure anyone even cares enough, after what happened because of you. But in case someone still happens to pass by ..."

Gerard pulled out a bottle. He poured the liquid over the ropes, soaking them in it. Stiles realised it was wolfsbane. "Hell," the old man said cheerfully while working, "I even hope someone tries to save you two. I wish I could stay to watch the whole show, but I have places to be. So many things to do, so little time."

Stiles wanted to spit out an insult, but he forgot the gag and only manages a gurgling noise. The next moment, he saw the matches in Gerard’s hand. Saw how one of the hunters tilted a canister. A puddle of dark liquid formed on the floor. Stiles' heart seemed to stop beating. Everything just stopped for a moment. Oh God. Of course. Stiles couldn't help himself, a hysterical laughter bubbled up in his throat, trying to get around the gag. Of course it was going to be fire. Fucking pyromaniacs.

"Like I said, nothing personal, Stiles," Gerard said mildly. "Please remember that. If you still can, after this."

He lighted the match and threw it on the little puddle of gasoline. Then, he just turned around and left. His men followed him. The door closed behind them. Gently. 

Stiles’ eyes were glued to the flames. He willed them to die. But they didn’t. Instead, they grew, already reaching for something to burn.

He whimpered and tried in vain to get out of the chair.

Just a weak human.

Weak.

And he is going to die. Now.

Stiles’ eyes fall shut. He feels so tired suddenly. His head swims in dizziness and creeping blackness. He also feels terribly hot. Sweat makes his clothes cling to his skin. He just lets his head sink on his chest. There is nothing he can do. He is just going to take a nap. A long long nap ...

“Open your eyes, Stiles. Look at me.”

Stiles flinches when a voice cuts through the noises of the fire. It’s right in front of him. He forces his eyes open.

Peter. It’s Peter.

The werewolf is crouching in front of him, reaching out to cup Stiles’ face, his hand so heavenly cold. His eyes are gleaming blue, a stark contrast to all the red and orange. “You’ll be alright,” he says, voice strained.

Maybe, Stiles wonders, it is an illusion. A last illusion his mind sends him, before it shuts down. It is kind of nice it sends him Peter. He always feels safe with Peter.

“I’ll get you out of here,” Peter tells him and his hand disappears from Stiles’ heated skin. He suddenly feels a pull. Peter is pulling and clawing at the ropes. No, Stiles thinks weakly. They are soaked with wolfsbane, you’ll hurt yourself … Illusions can’t get hurt though, right? Right.

There is a sizzling noise when the wolfsbane burns Peter’s hands. He grunts in pain, but he continues to tear the rope apart, until Stiles suddenly falls forward. Peter catches him. Not an illusion, Stiles wonders vaguely, when he ends up with his face in the crook of Peter’s neck and can sense his rapid heartbeat. The gag is pulled out of his mouth. Not an illusion. Huh.

Peter wraps his arms around Stiles and stands up, turning towards the exit. Which is in flames. Stiles stares at the flickering flames stunned. Dad, he thinks weakly. Dad … Maybe he also tries to say it, because Peter shushes him. The werewolf turns away from the door and towards one of the few windows that’s still free. The shattering of the glass is too silent because of all the noise the fire makes.

The world suddenly tilts and Stiles is laid on heavenly soft, cool grass. He stares up with a sigh, seeing a glimpse of the blue sky between all the wavering smoke. The air is so fresh, it is a shock to inhale it. His lungs ache.

Peter crouches beside him and touches his forehead gently. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he tells Stiles. Then, he is gone.

Stiles whimpers and stares up at the sky, keeping his mouth open and trying to get more of the fresh air. He feels so sick. Like he is going to vomit any moment.

Suddenly, there is a strange noise. It sounds like an explosion, only less loud. 

Stiles turns his head to look. The movement is almost too much. He is so weak. The world sways. When Stiles looks at the house, he sees fire and nothing else. The flames pour out from every window he sees. He chokes out a sob. Dad … Peter … 

The next moment, Peter stumbles out of the smoke, carrying Stiles’ Dad in his arms like a precious treasure. He lays his lifeless body down beside Stiles and when Peter crouches, Stiles sees that his back is on fire. Peter coughs and collapses, rolling around in the grass to smother the flames.

Sirens blare in the distance. People are yelling somewhere.

Stiles whimpers. His Dad looks so still. He doesn’t look alive. He tries to move. He wants his Dad. 

“Stiles …” Peter crawls towards him, until he is close enough to take Stiles’ hand. “You’ll be alright,” the werewolf tells him, his voice raspy. Stiles can only stare at him, all his words are gone. The next moment, Peter’s eyes roll back in his head and he sags. Stiles sobs. He heaves his aching body up and presses against Peter, hiding his face in the crook of the wolf’s neck. 

Peter smells like smoke. 

Stiles closes his eyes and the world fades away. 

* * *

* * *

[Back then]

Peter knows so much. And he doesn’t need to google. He just opens his mouth and talks. 

Stiles is in awe. Well, he is in awe after he is over the shock of Peter coming back from the dead and over the worry he might plan something really devious. 

When everyone else still acts wary, Stiles is long convinced that Peter is just trying to fit in this time. Which seems like a slow and tedious process. 

They encounter something supernatural, something magical that no one knows about, and Peter sits on the stairs, already smirking, because the bastard knows exactly what comes next. 

But he does spill his extensive knowledge. 

And when there is pizza and video games, when the pack gathers in a corner far away from Peter, Stiles goes to him and asks a few more questions. 

Peter never sends him away. Never rolls his eyes. He just smiles and tells Stiles what he wants to know. 

“You know,” he once says almost casually, “I have a lot of books about this specific topic. If you want to borrow one …”

“Cool!” Stiles says, grinning. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Derek perking up and frowning at them. But he doesn’t know why, so he mentally shrugs and asks Peter another question. 

Peter also knows how to fight. How to really fight. He knows all the dirty tricks Derek doesn’t like to talk about, but which are necessary, Peter says, when you are up against someone experienced. 

“Can you teach me?” Stiles asks him, hopeful. 

Peter looks a bit surprised at that. “You want to learn how to fight? But don’t you have your bat?” he asks with a little smirk. 

Stiles snorts. “As we all could see, the bat doesn’t always work. Look, I am the only human here. I have no healing factor and no superpowers. I am just pasty and mouthy. So, can you teach me?” 

Peter tilts his head and considers him for a moment. Finally, he shrugs and nods. “Sure. I can. For a favor …”

Stiles is not surprised. He sighs. “What do you want?” 

“Pack,” Peter says. Only that single word.

“Oh.” Stiles frowns. He expected a lot. But not a one word answer. “And with pack you mean …”

“It is mostly about strengthening bonds and would involve a few, uh, subtle things,” Peter explains matter of factly. He seems hesitant to go more into the details, but Stiles has some ideas. “You mean spending time together, like the others do. And wolfy things like scent-marking?” 

Peter nods. “That’s about it. Though, you don’t have to agree to any physical part of it. Spending time together once in a while would be … sufficient.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says. It makes sense. Werewolves need stable packbonds, to function and heal. Peter is still not really included and Stiles is the only one talking to him even when there is no monster of the week. So, it makes sense. Stiles doesn't mind Peter's company. Not anymore. “Okay. Why not. I can do that. We are going to spend time together anyway, if you teach me how to fight. But … are you sure it will be enough? I’m not a wolf.” 

Peter smiles at him. It is one of the rare real smiles, he apparently reserves for specific moments. Stiles thinks he should show it more often. It looks good on him. “You are pack,” Peter simply says. 

Stiles feels surprisingly warm at that. 

* * *

* * *

[Now]

Stiles awakes in a hospital bed. Something is on his face and he reaches for it instinctively. Before he can touch the thing, someone catches his wrist and puts it back on the bed gently. “Don’t,” a voice says, “You need the mask for a while longer, okay?” 

Stiles knows this voice. He blinks into the too bright lights above him and carefully turns his head. A face hovers above him. First, it’s very blurry, but he manages to focus. Melissa … 

She smiles at him, but it is a weak smile and her eyes are filled with tears. “Hey, sweetie,” she whispers, squeezing his hand and brushing his hair from his forehead. “Welcome back.” 

Welcome back. 

Oh. 

Stiles remembers. Fire. Fire everywhere. His … Oh God. 

“Dad,” he croaks. It comes out muffled because apparently the thing on his face is an oxygen mask, providing him with fresh air. “Dad …”

Melissa strokes his arm soothingly. “He’s going to be alright, Stiles. You are both going to be alright. He just needs a lot of rest, okay? He inhaled a lot of smoke, just like you, and he has a concussion.” 

His Dad is alive. Stiles is so damn grateful, he almost starts to cry. But what about ... “Peter,” he rasps. 

Melissa nods. “He’s alive as well, don’t worry.”

“Where …,” Stiles groans. He hates that he can only talk like this. But his lungs … They are aching and he just can’t talk properly. He needs to see Peter. Needs to make sure he’s okay. He didn't look okay. 

“He’s in surgery,” Melissa tells him. And that’s wrong, because Peter is a werewolf. What would he need surgery for? Maybe, his worry is visible, because Melissa explains, “He’s not healing properly. I don’t know … Deaton says it might be a combination of the wolfsbane and the fact, that his packbonds are not as strong or stable as they should be,” she hesitates, but then adds, “Most of his injuries are superficial, but he’s got second burn degrees on his back and his hands are not in a good state.” 

Stiles closes his eyes. He wants to scream. Packbonds … That was his job. So he wasn’t enough after all. God. Peter went into a fire for him. A fire. It must have been horrible. It must have awaken all of his worst memories. Stiles vaguely remembers how Peter once reacted, when they made a campfire. How he tried to act like it didn't affect him, but how he flinched back as soon as the flames grew and how he murmured that he had something better to do anyway, disappearing into the woods with fast steps. He remembers how worried Derek looked after him, although they still barely talked to each other. Oh God.

“He ran into a burning building for me,” Stiles whispers hoarsely and the tears prickle as they fill his eyes. He lets them. “He got burned again. Cause of me.” 

Melissa shakes her head softly. “No, Stiles. None of this is your fault, okay hon? It was Peter’s choice to do this. He decided to save you and Noah. That he got hurt is not your fault. You didn’t set the house on fire.” 

Stiles nods, grateful for her words. They make him feel a bit better. “Need to see them,” he murmurs. 

“Not now,” Melissa says sternly, though she is still stroking his hair back gently. “You need rest too, Stiles. You inhaled a lot of smoke. Too much. Sleep a while longer for me, okay? You can see them later.” 

Stiles wants to object. But he can feel how tired, how weak his body is. Every moment of keeping his eyes open is a struggle. “Okay,” he whispers and just allows them to fall close. “Okay …”

He falls asleep with the comforting feeling of Melissa holding his hand. 

* * *

* * *

[Back down]

“Ha!” Stiles calls out when he manages to avoid Peter’s attack and twist the werewolf's wrist. “Ha! I’m getting bet-” his words are abruptly cut off, when Peter headbutts him into the chest and simultaneously trips him. “Ow!” Stiles yelps when he lands on his back. “Hey!” 

Peter grins at him. “Dirty tricks, Stiles. Fighting doesn’t only consist of fistfighting. In fact, it is a mess and you have to use everything you have.” 

“Fine,” Stiles sighs and gets up with a grimace. He can already feel his muscles burning. Hell, he feels muscles he didn’t even know he had.

“Maybe we can now get to your part of the bargain now?” Peter asks and tilts his head. 

Stiles tries not to show how grateful he is for the suggestion. “Oh. Yeah, sure. What do you want to do?” 

Peter frowns. He thinks but doesn’t answer. That doesn’t happen often. Apparently, he thought Stiles would come prepared. “We can order pizza and watch a movie?” Stiles offers eventually. 

Peter nods. “I’d like that.” 

“Cool. What kind of movies do you like?” 

Peter’s frown deepens. He shrugs. “I’m not picky.” 

Stiles hums. He feels a bit bewildered by the lack of information. Normally, Peter is so eloquent. “Have you seen Harry Potter?” he asks. Can’t do anything wrong with Harry Potter. Plus, there’s a werewolf. Ha. 

Peter shakes his head. 

Stiles gasps. “Not a single part?!” 

Another head shake. 

“Okay, we are so going to do this,” Stiles says. “I’m going to head home, take a shower and find all seven parts. I'll be at yours in an hour, alright?”

“Alright,” Peter says, scrunching his nose. 

Stiles hurries. 

He really is looking forward to this. It’s been quite a while since he watched Harry Potter and the movies always make him feel nostalgic. 

When he knocks at the door of Peter’s apartment an hour later, slightly breathless, Peter opens, looking like he has just showered as well, his hair still wet and a drop of water running down his cheek. He is wearing one of his V-necks and jeans. He looks insanely attractive and Stiles feels a bit ridiculous with his loose sitting Avengers shirt and the sweatpants. He grins at Peter anyway and shows him the heap of DvDs. “Ready?” 

“You came,” Peter states. 

Stiles frowns. “Of course I came,” he chuckles, confused. “Why shouldn’t I?” 

Peter considers him for a moment, then he shrugs and opens the door further. “Come in.” 

Stiles smiles and enters Peter’s apartment, looking around curiously. “Dude, your couch is massive!” he calls out in awe. 

Peter gives him a little laugh. It sounds nice. 

A little while later, when they sit close to each other, their shoulders brushing, Stiles laughs at something happening in the movie and thinks he could get used to this. Though he kind of feels like he is teaching Peter how to have fun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for the mention of killing children (Hale Fire).

[Now]

The Stilinskis' house is on fire. 

Peter freezes when he smells the smoke and sees the flickering flames. For a long moment, he is sure this is one of his nightmares. But why would Stiles' house be on fire? He always finds himself in the basement when he dreams ...

People are yelling and Peter is brought back to reality. He sees some neighbours standing on their lawn, mobile phones pressed to their ears. 

No ...

Peter drops the heap of DVDs he wanted to give back to Stiles. Stiles brought him a lot over the last few weeks. Every time they finished a movie together, Stiles asked if he’d seen this or that. And every time Peter shook his head, Stiles facepalmed and put the movie on his “things Peter has to catch up with immediately” - list. Now, the DVDs land in the grass, forgotten, as Peter runs towards Stiles' home.

The smoke is thick and black over the house. 

There are orange flames pouring out of a window. 

Peter stops in front of the building, already feeling the heat it is radiating. He swallows thickly.

His wolf wants to run. Wants to run until they can’t smell the smoke anymore. Until it can't stir up any memories.

Peter pushes the wolf, his instincts and stirring memories back. He tries to focus on the now. Because … What if they are still in there? What if the Sheriff is caught somewhere in the inferno? What if Stiles … No. The thought makes his throat clench. 

Peter takes a deep breath and briefly closes his eyes. He has to check. He has to make sure Stiles isn't in there. 

His wolf whines in protest.

Peter fades him out and starts to walk.

Someone yells at him. Peter ignores them. He walks straight to the house and kicks the door open. 

Abruptly, he is met with heat and more smoke. The flames are licking at the wall and crawling over the floorboards. It is so loud. A constant roaring and crackling noise. Peter looks around and his heart seems to falter a beat because yes, there is Stiles, sitting on a chair in the middle of the room. He’s bound with thick ropes and gagged, his head sunken forward on his chest. He doesn’t look alive. 

No. 

He can’t be dead. 

Peter walks forward and crouches in front of Stiles, calling out his name.

Stiles winces and groans, slowly raising his head and blinking with red-rimmed eyes. They widen a bit when they fall on Peter. Relieved, Peter starts to work at the ropes with his claws, only to flinch back with a hiss, when he’s burned by them. Wolfsbane. Hunters did this. Only a few steps away from Stiles lays the sheriff, passed out and bleeding sluggishly from a wound at his head.

Peter welcomes the sharp spark of rage that hits him. He can need it now. It will help him to stay focused. 

He grits his fangs and just grips the wolfsbane-soaked ropes, ignoring how the poison bites into his skin. He doesn’t let go until Stiles sways forward and Peter can catch him. His hands are pulsing when he wraps his arms around the boy’s body and pulls it up with him. He ignores that too.

Instead, he focuses on his next task: getting Stiles out of the house. He is shocked to find the door already in flames. It is not a safe exit. Not anymore. Peter tightens his grip on Stiles. The next breath he takes hurts. His lungs are dry and his eyes burn with the smoke.  
  
It is all way too familiar. 

His head swims and for a moment, he is back in the burning basement, watching as Talia crawls towards one of the children, reaching out with a clawed hand, to do the unthinkable. 

For a moment, Peter isn’t holding Stiles. He is holding one of his little nieces. Leah. She is clinging to him, barely breathing but whimpering. He tried shoving her through the bars of the window. It didn’t work. He only hurt her. 

Leah coughs and as Talia looks up, their eyes meeting through the flames, Peter knows there is only one thing left for him to do. One thing before he can close his own eyes and let go. One thing … Never before had it been so difficult to let his claws drop. 

No. Wait.

Peter shakes his head, trying to get back to reality. This isn’t Leah. This isn’t the basement. There is no mountain ash line keeping him inside. 

Peter turns his head and sees a window not yet framed by flames. The relief is almost painful. He can save Stiles. There is a way out. He doesn’t have to use his claws. He can just shatter the glass and walk out.

Peter does exactly this. He steps out of the shattered window and carries Stiles until they are a few metres away from the house.

He lays Stiles down carefully, touching the boy's sweaty forehead and telling him he'll be back in a moment.

Then, he turns around and walks back into the house to fetch the sheriff. When he pulls the man’s heavier body up, something - maybe a sudden burst of air - makes the fire roar and explode. The heat that hits Peter in the back is unbearable. It makes him stumble forward and gasp, as he tries to shield the unconscious sheriff from the flames. 

Later, Peter won’t even remember how he got out of the fire this time. But eventually, there is fresh air. There is grass and there is Stiles, staring up at the sky and breathing shallowly. Peter lays the sheriff down beside Stiles. 

Vaguely, he notices his back is on fire. It hurts, but it is like phantom pain. He sinks down and rolls on his back, smothering the flames. He feels very tired. His thoughts try to float away. He can hear approaching sirens. Just like back then, Peter thinks and shivers. Just like back then, he's laying in grass, staring at the sky and listening to sirens.

But this time, he saved someone. He turns his head, searching for Stiles with his eyes, the urge to convince himself that he isn't the only one alive too strong.

Stiles’ eyes are open and wet with tears when they meet Peter's. Peter sighs in relief. Stiles is alive. He’ll live. 

Peter closes his eyes.

* * *

Stiles feels better when he wakes up the next time. 

Well, he still feels like a truck hit him, but at least, he can breathe better and when he removes the oxygen mask, his lungs don’t start to ache. That's something.

Melissa still scolds him when she finds him maskless and sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to put his shoes on. “What about _rest_ didn’t you understand?” she asks him sternly. 

Stiles glances up at her pleadingly. He knows he’s doing the kicked puppy look, which is not fair, but he can’t help himself. He has to get out of this bed, this room. “Please. I have to see them,” he begs. 

Melissa’s eyes soften. She sighs. But she reaches under the bed and pulls Stiles’ shoes from beneath, helping him to get into them. “Fine, but after, you are going back to bed,” she tells him, her voice grim. 

Stiles just nods, feeling relieved.

Melissa lets him see his Dad first. 

Stiles’ heart stumbles when he stop at the door and sees him laying there, eyes closed and a bandage wrapped around his head, his breath fogging up the oxygen mask. This is so surreal, Stiles thinks, actually swaying. Melissa lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. His Dad shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have been hurt like this. He could have died ... The realisation feels like a punch in the guts.

Right this moment, Noah’s eyes open slowly. He blinks and then looks at Stiles, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Hey. Do I really look that bad?” he asks, looking between Stiles and Melissa. 

“Dad,” Stiles breathes. 

Noah’s eyes settle on him and get more serious. “Son …” 

Stiles feels his lips wobble. He can’t hold it back anymore. It just bursts out of him. He sobs, and then he runs - or rather stumbles - through the room, wrapping his arms around his Dad’s neck firmly. Noah lifts his own up, wrapping them around Stiles’ trembling body. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m okay, Stiles.” 

Stiles nods and wipes his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to get hurt, I …”

His Dad shakes his head, putting both hands on Stiles’ shoulders and looking at him seriously. “It’s not your fault, okay? These people decided long ago which path they were going to take. And you didn’t tell them to do this.” His eyes fill with something harder, when he adds, “though, as soon as I’m out of here, Gerard Argent should better wrap himself up well, because no one hurts my family and is getting away with it.” 

Stiles chuckles. “I am sure Peter will agree with you on this,” he murmurs. “He saved us, by the way. Peter.” 

“Mel already told me,” Noah nods. “I hope I can thank him soon. I bet it wasn’t easy for him, to walk right into a fire.”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes. His stomach clenches. He really has to see Peter … He looks at Melissa questioningly. She nods. 

The walk through the hospital hallway isn’t easy for Stiles. It stirs up some memories he wishes he could forget. Well, he doesn’t remember all of it, but the Nogitsune showed him enough. Stiles guesses the fox liked to feel his despair. It probably fed on it. 

When they enter Peter’s room, Stiles swallows around the lump that seems to form in his throat at the sight in front of him. He sinks on the chair beside the bed, feeling really exhausted now. Peter is still passed out from morphium combined with anesthetics. His face is still. His even breaths are fogging up the oxygen mask. He is propped up with a lot of pillows, probably because of his burned back. 

Stiles bites his lip. He feels so fucking guilty. 

Stiles reaches out to take one of Peter’s hand and then hesitates when he realises they are both wrapped in bandages. Instead, he puts his hand on Peter’s arm. He can’t pull pain like the wolves. “Thank you,” he breathes, wondering if his words will somehow reach Peter. “Thanks for saving us. I … I really thought I would die in there. Thank you. And … I’m sorry. I’m sorry you got hurt like this, again.” 

Not that long ago, Stiles was the reason that Peter burned alive a second time. Now, Peter willingly walked through a fire to save Stiles and got burned a third time. Sometimes, life is so weird … 

Stiles sighs and feels the exhaustion truly settle in. It makes him feel heavy. Kind of floaty. 

Melissa gently touches his shoulder. “Time to go back to your bed,” she says softly. “He won’t wake up for another few hours, anyway.” 

“Okay,” Stiles murmurs. He takes a last look at Peter’s still face. “I’ll be back,” he promises, then lets Melissa lead him out of the room and back to his own, where he sinks into a deep sleep in the matter of minutes, the oxygen mask providing him with wonderfully clean air. 

* * *

* * *

[Back then]

When Stiles asks him why he came back, Peter doesn't tell him the whole truth. 

He did came back out of spite and because some part of him was reluctant to let go of life. There had to be something more, right? More than trying to get approval from always disappointed parents, more than tracking and getting rid of threats, more than burning and losing his mind. 

Once upon a time, he had dreams just like any other person. Life just refused to play along. 

A hopeful part of him thought that maybe, if he came back and started a second life, things would be different. That maybe, he could find things he secretly hoped for but never got. 

Admittingly, Peter came back for Derek too. That’s something he doesn’t talk about. The thing he couldn’t tell Stiles. He doesn’t talk about the strong urge to keep looking out for his nephew. For this young man that once was a boy looking up to him. Derek is all he has left of his family. 

It hurts to see the disappointment and resentment in Derek’s eyes now. But Peter can’t really ask for anything else, can he? All the things he did in his past life, the things he did to resurrect himself, they cling to him and they ask for consequences. Death didn’t erase anything. He is not naive. Or stupid. When he came back, he certainly didn’t expect to be treated with kindness. He didn’t expect more than what he got.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. 

Once upon a time, Peter taught a younger Derek and the other pups about the meaning of packbonds. Wolves aren’t supposed to be alone. Loneliness makes them go feral. Makes them lose control. It’s dangerous, because it inevitably leads to death by wolfsbane bullets. 

Bonds are strengthened by scent-marking, touch and general sympathy. It hurts to have none, but it hurts even more to lose bonds. 

Peter knows that by now. Almost every bond he had snapped when the fire consumed his family. Another one snapped when he killed Laura. It feels like falling without ever landing. 

His bond to Derek is still there, but it’s brittle. It feels like it could snap at any point. Like it just needs a little trigger. Cora’s is a bit stronger, but still pretty much the same. Brittle, unsure, fragile. And Peter won’t tell anyone, but he’s scared. He doesn’t want to lose these bonds. Sometimes, he feels for them, relieved when he still feels the pulses, but shattered when he also senses how poisoned they are. 

He still tells himself that he is not desperate. No. He’s not. 

And yet … Yet, his stupid wolf practically vibrates with hope and joy when a certain human starts to linger around him, all curious eyes and fidgeting fingers. 

Peter can’t help it. The longing for a stable bond is too strong. So, when Stiles starts to spend more and more time with him, listening to his explanations and bickering with him, when Peter’s wolf practically purrs whenever the boy is close, he knows he has to get a hold of this bond. 

His chance comes, when Stiles asks for fighting lessons. 

Stiles doesn’t even bat an eye when Peter tells him what he wants in return. Remarkable. 

Teaching Stiles how to fight stirs up a lot of memories. Memories of Derek, clumsy in his lankiness, yet determined to pay Peter some bruises back. Memories of suddenly finding himself pinned to the forest floor by a heavily breathing and growling Derek, feeling the warmth of pride at his nephew's progress, just before he flipped them again and Derek let out a startled frustrated howl. 

Memories are Peter’s worst enemies. They make him open and weak. Vulnerable. He can’t risk being that way. Sometimes, he wishes he could just shut them off. Sometimes, he curses Talia and wonders why she didn’t take - stole - more from him than she apparently did anyway, for whatever reason. 

When Stiles manages to get a good grip in, he makes a triumphant noise and he sounds so much like Derek, Peter loses his focus for a moment. But he pulls himself together the next second, making Stiles trip and fall on his back.

He’s relieved when they can end the lesson and Stiles actually shows up later, for the promised movie night. Peter enjoys Harry Potter more than he thought he would. Though he wrinkles his nose at the poor portrayal of a werewolf, and Stiles teases him with it. However, Peter likes the characters and some messages the story sends. But what he likes way more, is Stiles’ company. 

He likes it so much, he should be concerned. But he can’t bring himself to care enough. There has been enough worry, misery and yearning in his life. Why shouldn’t he enjoy things one damn time? The wolf agrees, purring and relaxing in Stiles’ presence, not crawling at Peter’s mental walls for once. 

Stiles laughs at something that happens in the movie and Peter loves the light noise. He loves to see the bright spots in Stiles’ amber eyes. Loves to see how he restlessly taps a finger against his own leg and wiggles his toes thoughtlessly. Loves how he reaches for the popcorn but also can’t look away from what happens on screen and ends up brushing against Peter’s hand holding the bowl. 

Stiles laughs and murmurs an apology. Peter just shrugs. He feels a strange fluttering sensation in his stomach. It intensifies when he experimentally rubs his cheek against Stiles’ neck in a gentle, careful scent-marking gesture, and Stiles doesn’t move away or protests, but instead _smiles_ and actually leans into his touch. 

It makes the wolf howl with joy. 

* * *

* * *

[Now]

Peter wakes up slowly. It feels like floating underwater and gradually drifting upwards, toward the light.

  
When he opens his eyes properly, everything is too white and he feels like he is wrapped up in cotton. An inhale brings the strong sharp scent of antiseptic and Peter knows then. He is at the hospital. 

Not his favourite place. Not at all. 

Peter grimaces at the bad taste in his mouth. The oxygen mask resting on his face can’t do anything against that. Next he notices that his hands feel impossibly heavy. When he gazes at them, he sees that they are wrapped up with bandages, looking like white bulky, thick gloves. 

Ah yes. The wolfsbane from the ropes burned into the palms of his hands. Peter vaguely remembers it now. Remembers the pulsing pain and the sickening smell. He sighs and turns his head on the pillow, hoping to find some water on the nightstand beside the table. There isn’t any water, but the next moment, steps approach his bed and someone appears in his field of vision. 

It is Melissa McCall. She looks down at him with a slight frown, but her eyes are surprisingly warm. “Welcome back,” she says. 

Peter blinks. He wants to ask her for the Stilinskis, but his mouth feels so dry, he is not sure he will get anything out. “Stiles …,” he tries, his voice raspy. 

Melissa nods. “He’s alright. Well, he inhaled way too much smoke and I had to force him to rest, but he will be alright,” she says and smiles. 

Peter is beyond relief. “Noah?” he asks next. 

Melissa nods again. There is something tight in her gaze now. Something emotional. “You saved their lives,” she states. 

Peter hums. The relief is still strong. It seems like he is still good for at least _something_ , after all. He tries to sit up in bed some more. “Water, please,” he croaks, barely making it to the last syllable. 

“Of course.” Melissa turns around to something Peter can’t see. When she turns back to him, there is a glass of water in her hand. Peter wants to reach for it, then he remembers that his hands are useless. He frowns. 

Melissa chuckles. “Yes. I bet you don’t like that at all, but you just have to let me help you for now.” 

She is right. Peter doesn’t like it at all. It sends him back in his cursed collection of memories, back to when he couldn’t move at all; when strangers just came in to touch, move and poke him. But this is different. He is awake and Melissa McCall is not one of the nurses who are rough and impatient, not caring if they leave bruises on his skin or if they drip tea on his clothes.

So he just nods and waits, letting her remove the oxygen mask and hold the glass to his mouth. The water is heavenly cold. It is like balm for his dry throat. He gulps the whole glass down and then another one. 

When he lays back into the pillows, he feels a bit less miserable and tries not to think about what else is going to be difficult with his hands stuck in these bandage gloves. He grimaces when his back suddenly pulses in pain and remembers that he got burned there too. Apparently, whatever dulled the pain so far is now fading.

Melissa catches the expression on his face, of course she does. “How bad is the pain, on a scale from 1 to 10?” she asks. 

Peter frowns and focuses on his back, suppressing a gasp at another pulse of pain. After it, it comes in hot, sharp waves. Damn. He clears his throat, trying to seem as indifferent as possible. “Probably a three?” 

Melissa glares at him. “Don’t lie to me, Hale. I may not be a werewolf, but I am great at spotting a lie too,” she says, putting her hands on her hips and frowning. 

Peter can’t suppress a smile. She is a force to be reckoned with. He knew that from the moment he saw her, of course. “Hm. Sorry. Probably a 13,” he breathes, his voice almost breaking when another wave of pain hits him and he feels sweat breaking out on his forehead. 

Melissa’s gaze soflens. “I will increase the morphium,” she tells him, fiddling with the IV. 

Peter just nods, too exhausted to argue. He closes his eyes, briefly opening his senses to everything in the room. He frowns when he catches the hint of a familiar smell between all the antiseptic, cheap fabric and Melissa. Stiles …

“Stiles’ been here, right?” he murmurs, almost startled at how tired talking suddenly makes him. Does morphium really work that fast? 

Melissa nods. “Yes. He’s been here, saying thank you.” She puts the oxygen mask back on his face and pulls the blanket up to his chin. “Rest some more. There will be time for everything else later,” she tells him and leaves the room, closing the door behind her gently. 

Peter knows she’s right. There is a burning worry starting to boil inside of him. Gerard, the hunters, Derek, Stiles and his father, Gerard … But he has to shut that down for now. He is not in the state to do anything but lay here, for now. 

He closes his eyes and allows himself to drift off again. 

* * *

* * *

[Back then]

  
  


Being possessed is strange. 

Stiles constantly feels like he actually has to be somewhere else, but he can’t leave this place. 

Before he can leave, he has to finish this game. He has to win. 

The Nogitsune is a serious opponent. He is not like Peter, who cares most about what Stiles does or does not - what he learns or doesn’t learn - when they play chess. No. The Nogitsune is just happy to have someone who plays with it. It just wants to be entertained. 

Stiles has to win. He vaguely knows that something horrible is going to happen if he doesn’t. 

But before he can figure out how to do it, how to surprise a fox that knows all the surprises, Scott roars and the world trembles. 

Stiles perks up. 

He sees Scott and Lydia but … are they real? Can they be real? 

Stiles decides to hope so. 

He doesn’t want to play anymore. So, he stops. The Nogitsune is furious and it shows how much it hates to lose it. But losing it does anyway, in the end. With, like Stiles learns a little while later, was Peter’s doing in large part. 

When Stiles isn’t possessed anymore, the others look at him differently. They try not to, but Stiles still notices. He notices their glances and their way of turning away from him. The only one not looking at him any differently is Peter. 

“Why would I?” he asks, when Stiles mentions it once, sounding confused. 

“I did things,” Stiles says, looking at his hands, folded in his lap. He suppresses the urge to count his fingers, to exclude the possibility that this is just a dream. 

Peter hums, not even looking up from the pancakes he makes for them. It’s Sunday morning and Stiles spent the night at Peter’s apartment for the first time. “No you didn’t. That thing that decided to take over your body did the bad things. You were in the background, not able to stop it.” 

Stiles swallows heavily. “But … What if it was attracted by the darkness in my mind? What if I’m bad at my core? What if I’m actually a monster?” he asks quietly. Questions he asks nobody else, because he doesn’t feel like anyone wants to hear them. 

Peter hands him a plate with a huge heap of pancakes drowning in syrup and shakes his head. “Stiles, there is no good or bad in this world. No black or white. There are different shades of grey. And there are good and bad choices,” he hesitates then adds, with a lopsided grin, “we’ve all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That’s who we really are.” 

Stiles freezes, then he snorts. “Dude. Did you really just quote Sirius Black at me!?” 

Peter shrugs and practically inhales his first pancake. “I liked what he said. They really shouldn't have killed the guy.” 

“Yeah, I liked what he said too,” Stiles murmurs. He smiles, then digs his fork into a pancake. 

* * *

* * *

[Now]

  
When Stiles wakes up, he feels groggy. But the feeling quickly disappears, because he almost gets a heartattack. Derek is leaning against the wall, staring at Stiles. 

Stiles gasps and flinches. “Oh my … Derek!” He glares at the werewolf. “I can’t believe you still do this!”

Derek just continues staring at him. “I saw your house. The firefighters, the police … Peter isn’t answering his phone. What happened, Stiles?” he asks, his voice tense. 

Stiles sighs and rubs his eyes. He keeps his explanation short, because the exhaustion tugs at him again. “Gerard burned our house down. With me and my father in it. Peter saved us. Now we are all here. That happened.” 

Derek’ brow twitches. He shifts his stance and Stiles can see that he’s clenching his hands into fists where they are buried in the pockets of his jacket. 

“You should probably go and see Peter. He got hurt and he doesn’t heal as fast as he could,” he tells Derek. 

Derek seems to be at loss for words. 

Stiles doesn’t mind. He reaches for the water bottle on his nightstand and gulps the cool liquid down. 

“I’m sorry this happened to you, Stiles,” Derek eventually says. “I’m really sorry. I … We will do something. Gerard can’t get away with this,” his voice is shaking now. And his eyes look haunted. 

Stiles starts to feel bad. He wonders what Derek is seeing right now. Is he seeing the burned out Hale house in which he lived for so long to punish himself for the death of his family? 

“I’m okay,” Stiles tells Derek. _No, you are not,_ a voice in the back of his mind whispers. He ignores it. “Really, Derek. Go and see your uncle.” 

Derek winces, but he nods curtly. He leaves after a last look at Stiles, his shoulders hunched up. 

* * *

* * *

[Back then]

  
  


Stiles spends even more time at Peter’s apartment now. He even stays overnight. 

Peter would lie if he said he doesn’t enjoy it. 

He enjoys knowing there is someone else close. Enjoys making breakfast for someone in the morning. 

But he knows Stiles isn’t well. He can sense it. 

The Nogitsune left some traces and being possessed changed the boy. He is more thoughtful. 

Stiles has nightmares. Peter doesn’t know if he remembers them when he wakes up. But one time, Stiles wakes up from them and staggers towards Peter’s bed, leaning against the doorframe and breathing heavily. 

Peter sits up in bed and stares at Stiles’ shadow, until the boy asks, “Can I … Uh, I mean …” He stops and blushes.

Peter just lifts the blanket. 

Stiles makes a little sound. He stumbles towards the bed and more or less falls on it, curling up into a ball. 

Peter pulls the blanket over them. 

Stiles radiates warmth, but also some fear mixed with sadness. He is tense.

Peter doesn’t really think about it, when he reaches for Stiles’ hand and laces their fingers together. But when Stiles sighs and relaxes, he knows it was the right thing to do. 

Later, he isn’t sure who dozes off first. 

However, when he wakes up in the morning, Stiles’ head is on his arm and one of the boy’s lanky legs is draped over his own. Peter feels half amused and half terrified. Because, when he looks at Stiles’ still face and his ruffled hair, when he hears his soft snores, he suddenly realises how much he actually feels for Stiles. 

Peter stares into the void and feels his heart beating faster.

He might have a problem. 


	3. Chapter 3

[Now]

  
Smoke. The heavy taste of it still lingers on Derek’s tongue when he leaves Stiles’ room at the hospital. 

It has been accompanying him ever since he stood in front of Stiles’ home, his eyes taking in blackened walls, shattered glass and flakes of ash in the grass. He stared, transfixed and disbelieving. 

The sight and smell connected to the things his bond to Stiles had been sending out to him. Surprise, fear, mental anguish … Relief. A confusing and alarming combination. At the same time, the bond to Peter - not as strong as it has once been, but still there of course - was vibrating with pain, mostly. 

Alarmed and confused, Derek called Stiles. Then Peter. Both didn’t pick up. He didn’t understand what happened. Until he arrived at the hospital and found Stiles, laying in a bed, still and pale. The sight cut deep. 

Gerard did this. Stiles’ revelation made Derek feel like his insides turned into ice water. Gerard Argent tried to kill Stiles and his father. Two humans. Innocents. Derek can feel his blood boiling. Can feel his wolf raging.

At the same time, he feels restless and disturbed. Old memories try to rise up to the surface of his mind. Old memories he tried to forget, to repress. Because this … this is way too close to what happened with Kate. 

Derek listens to Stiles’ words, trying to push the memories back. He winces when Stiles tells him Peter is hurt and not properly healing. Guilt and regret. Familiar feelings. 

He follows the pulse of Peter’s bond through the hospital hallway and finds his uncles’ room, slipping inside unseen. 

Peter is sleeping. 

For a long moment, Derek just stands there and looks at him. More memories … He’s been here before. Long ago. 

The night of the fire. Pictures. Snippets. Laura slumped in a hospital chair, her face displaying a row of different emotions as a doctor tells her that the pup Peter somehow managed to get outside with his own badly burnt body didn’t make it. Derek felt numb that night. The desperation and crying came afterwards, when his mind started to really process, what happened. 

He remembers how his claws had digged into his own flesh, as he formed tight fists. Remembers the smell of blood. The burning pulsing his claws caused was nothing compared to what it felt like when his pack bonds were destroyed that night. Derek will never forget the pain of losing them one by one. The sheer agony he howled at the night sky.

He was there at the hospital that night, sitting at Peter’s bed. The doctors told him to say goodbye. They didn’t think Peter would make it. Not with the damage the burns caused. It was wrong, to see his uncle like this, covered in bandages and hooked to strange machines. It was surreal. Everything about this night was surreal. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek whispered, clutching Peter’s unhurt hand while tears ran down his face, dripping on the too white blanket. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, …” 

The guilt followed him to New York and back to Beacon Hills. It made him live in the house his family died and suffered in. Made him avoid visiting Peter in the nursing home, because he couldn’t stand facing these blank eyes that seemed to look right through him. 

And even after all these years, the guilt still wraps around him like a coat. Sometimes, he wants to tell Peter he misses what they had before the fire happened. Misses Peter’s advice and encouragement, even his snarky way of making fun of Derek. 

“Stop smelling like that. It's annoying.” 

Derek winces when Peter’s voice rips him out of his thoughts and memories. His uncle glances up at him and then closes his eyes again. “What did I do, to earn the honor of your visit, nephew-mine?” Peter asks and smirks. “Let me guess, you see me in a whole different light, now that I saved two humans out of a fire yet another Argent caused? I guess I’m kind of a hero now, ugh.” 

Derek doesn’t know what to say. He just reaches out to put his hand on Peter’s shoulder, feeling for pain. He finds some, but not as much as he expected. But then, there must be painkillers in the drip. Maybe morphium, it would explain the slight slur in Peter’s voice and his hazy eyes. 

“Yeah, I’m wonderfully drugged,” Peter mutters, as if he read Derek’s thoughts. “Feeling like I’m walking on clouds. Definitely preferable to being lucid. You should try it too sometimes. Morphium, I mean. Maybe you wouldn’t feel so sorry all the time then.” 

“Thanks, I’ll pass,” Derek says dryly, pulling his hand back. He glances at Peter’s bandaged hands. 

Peter notices and shrugs, raising them slightly. “It’s alright. I’ve had worse. There are much more important things to think about. You know who set the fire?” he asks, voice sharper now. 

Derek nods. “Stiles told me.” 

“Then you know, what we have to do.” 

Derek does know. Oh yes, he knows. Everything inside him, wolf and human, knows. But … 

Peter scoffs. “But it’s not what the True Alpha wants. Obviously. But it’s necessary, you know that.” 

A part of Derek does. But he also knows that Scott is young and might not understand the meaning of being a werewolf, of being an Alpha … Not yet. “Don’t be so hard on him, Scott is still learning, it’s …”

“He is not learning. He has had so many opportunities to learn about our traditions and etiquettes,” Peter snarls, eyes flashing briefly. “But he didn’t. How much does it hurt, Derek? How much does it hurt to be in a pack without structures, without roles, without a Left Hand defending it from threats? I know it does hurt _me_.” 

Derek blinks in surprise. Usually, Peter is not so … so blunt with what is going on inside him. Maybe it’s the morphium. 

He knows they need to do something about Gerard as soon as possible, before he can hurt anyone else. And the old man will pay for what he did to Stiles and his Dad, to not only humans, but packmates. Derek’s wolf growls his agreement. 

“First, you have to heal,” Derek tells Peter. 

Peter sighs. “Well, that’s going to be a slow process, I fear.” 

Derek fears so too. He had his own experiences with slow healing wounds. Ever since the night of the fire, the pack bonds haven’t been the same. The bonds to the other werewolves … they are not as strong as the ones to his family, to born werewolves, have been. At least the one to Stiles is pretty strong, somehow. And the bond he shares with Peter … Well, Derek is quite sure it could be stronger, it they managed to stabilize their relationship. 

Someone has to take the first step, though. 

Derek hesitates, then he decides to be that one tonight, because he is tired. Because he yearns for a hint of what he once had. They have both changed so much. There is a lot standing between them, separating them from each other. Bad things, complicated things. But Derek still yearns.

“Sit up,” he tells Peter. 

Peter blinks in surprise, but does as he’s told, face contorting a bit when he moves. Derek sits on the edge of the bed without another word and leans over to brush their shoulders together, rubbing his cheek against Peter’s neck to scent him. He can feel Peter’s breath hitching and for a short moment, there is tension. Derek almost thinks Peter will pull back, but then, he just sinks into it, exhaling. 

Derek senses his wolf’s satisfaction and pushes any complicated things away for now. Sometimes, you have to just act on what you feel. 

  
  


[Back then]

The pack meeting is quite tedious, Stiles thinks and groans internally, not for the first time. 

No one wants to listen to him. Well, that’s not exactly a new thing, but still. Stiles thinks they should know better by now. Should know it’s worth listening to Stiles, and even more to Peter. 

Peter, who is sitting on his usual spot on the stairs, a bored expression on his face, but his eyes flicking to everyone with clear attention. Sometimes, Stiles would kill for being able to read minds. Just like, for a few hours. Or days. Maybe. 

He turns away from Scott, who now tries to explain to Erica why they can’t lure Gerard into a trap that makes him dangling from a tree upside down - a shame, really … - and approaches Peter. 

“Hey, Big Bad.” 

Peter smiles toothily. “Hey, eloquent pain in my ass.” 

Stiles laughs. “I take that as a compliment. What are you doing?” 

“Nothing. I’m doing an excellent job at being harmless and unobtrusive, just trying to get the usual breadcrumbs of pack attention I so desperately crave,” Peter says, arching his brows. 

Stiles chuckles. “Sure. Care about getting more than breadcrumbs? We could just get out of here.” 

Peter’s carefully indifferent facade drops for a moment and gives place for surprise. “We didn’t have one of our sparring meetings today,” he says, frowning. 

Stiles scratches the back of his head, not sure how to react to the hint of suspicion on Peter’s face. Okay. Maybe … he misread everything. Maybe, Peter doesn’t like to spend time with Stiles, as much as Stiles likes to spend time with him. Maybe, Peter really only wants to stick to their arrangement … 

But, only a few days ago, Stiles stayed at Peter’s apartment and Peter made him pancakes for breakfast. It was so cozy. Comfortable. 

Maybe, Stiles starts to smell anxious, because Peter gets up, smoothes his clothes and smiles. “But of course, I would always prefer a good round of chess to whatever this is,” he says pleasantly. 

“Oh. Great,” Stiles says, giving a careful smile back. “Then let’s go …” He turns around, looking right into Scott’s wide puppy eyes. “Really, Stiles?” he says, arching his brows. 

“ _Really Stiles_ what?” Stiles asks, confused. 

“You are going to leave the pack meeting? Although we said we would play video games after? Together?” 

Uh-oh. Stiles completely forgot about that. A new video game came out and apparently Scott has no one else interested in it so he asked Stiles. Stiles only agreed because, well, because something inside him actually misses his friend and the good times they had. Something inside him was hopeful and glad, Scott finally looked at him again.

Peter curiously observes the developing quarrel, eyes flicking between them. Stiles swallows. “Uhm, sorry Scott. Another time?” 

Scott’s brows wander up so high, they almost disappear under his hairline. “You choose spending time with Peter over spending time with me?! Dude.” 

Stiles feels a hint of anger. “Hey now, I can decide how I spend my time myself, right? You didn’t give a damn about me being here for the last few pack meetings, and now you’re suddenly acting hurt because I want to spend time with someone who appreciates me?” 

Scott makes a huffing noise and narrows his eyes. “ _Peter_ appreciating you? Are you serious? He’s just messing with you, like he always messes with everyone! You should be more careful, Stiles. You can’t trust him. He ...” 

“ _He_ is standing right in front of you,” Peter chimes in dryly, before Stiles can say anything. “And I am sad to disappoint you, but _he_ isn’t messing with anyone, in fact _he_ has the solution for your little problem with the pixies in the preserve. Here,” he pulls out a sheet and hands it to Scott, who takes it, dumbfounded. “I wrote down a step by step instruction, even you should be able to follow it.” 

Scott swallows and frowns down at the paper, his jaw working. Stiles can literally see how much stress it causes him to say thank you, but at least, he does, the words sounding pained. 

“You’re quite welcome, Alpha-mine,” Peter says, smirking. “Now, excuse us. Stiles and I have to settle our personal chess feud. But don’t worry. No one will get eaten while we are settling it.” 

Scott mutters something under his breath and glares, but he turns away with a shrug and strolls over to the others, all glancing at Stiles and Peter curiously. 

“So? Are we leaving? Besides … You changed your mind about the video game?” Peter asks after a moment. 

“No. We can leave,” Stiles says, quite sure he doesn’t imagine the spark of relief in Peter’s eyes. 

[Now]

He can’t move. He can’t feel his body. When he tries to say something, he realizes he can’t even open his mouth. It’s like he’s frozen, only his body isn’t cold as ice, but hot. It feels like it’s burning. 

Burning. God. He remembers burning. Remembers the first touch of heat that didn’t hurt at all, and the second touch that was pure agony. Remembers the sickening smell and the sound of his own scream. And he remembers packbonds snapping one by one. Cut off. Vanishing in the matter of a moment, like they never existed at all. 

He thought he died in the flames. But now he is here, in this fresh, clean hell. Not able to move, but able to smell and hear and feel everything. 

He’s confused, but slowly realizes what happened. He’s too hurt. His healing is not able to keep up with the damage. His wolf is weak. They shut their body down. A strange kind of self-induced hibernation. How long is it going to take until his wounds heal? He has no idea. Maybe weeks. Months. Years? 

The thought is excruciating. 

People walk in and out. They poke him. Fiddle with the tubes and machines. The wolf growls, rage rising with so many strangers being able to touch them. They are helpless. At these strangers' mercy. Every day, an enemy could walk in and finish them off. 

And then, when it’s dark - night - he can feel it. A cold touch. Fingers on his skin, wandering up slowly, unhindered. A hand curls around his throat. Fingers pressing on his artery. A chuckle echoes in the room. “Look at you. The big bad wolf, helpless. I could kill you right now, but I won’t,” a voice whispers. 

And he knows that voice. He knows it well. It’s Kate Argent. The murderer of his family. He wants to rage and tear her apart. But he can only lay there, staring up as she laughs down at him, her eyes sparkling in glee. “I won’t kill you, because it is way too much fun to see you like this. To know, I did this to you,” she whispers. 

And her hand squeezes, cutting off his airflow. 

Peter startles up in bed with a gasp. He is soaked in cold sweat. Involuntarily, he reaches up to touch his throat, only to growl in irritation when he is reminded that his hands are still wrapped up in bandages. 

There is still light falling into the room through the window curtains, so it’s day, not night.

Peter stares into the void for a moment, the pictures of his nightmare still lingering. The pictures and the sensations. It’s been more of a trip into memories than a nightmare. Kate really did visit him. He remembers it. 

Peter shivers. He should have seen that coming. Of course being in the hospital would trigger something like this. There is no way he is letting anyone see him like this. 

He can’t stay here. 

His back and his hands protest when he sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, pulsing in subdued pain. He plucks the needle from his elbow and looks around, relieved when he discovers his clothes on a chair in the corner, folded neatly. 

With a bit of luck, no one will notice he’s gone.  
  


* * *

It doesn’t take long until Stiles is bored out of his mind. At least, he feels a lot better and can breathe freely again, without his throat feeling like the Sahara desert. 

Melissa still manages to convince - blackmail … - him into a nap, but after, he swings his legs out of the bed and reaches for his shoes, intending to go and see Peter. 

A voice coming from the door makes him freeze. 

“Hey.” 

It’s Scott. He comes in the room, scrunching his nose and scratching the back of his head as he eyes Stiles up and down. “Dude, are you okay?” he asks. 

“Well, what do you think?” Stiles says dryly. “I almost died. In a fire. Set by fucking Gerard Argent.”

Scott grimaces. “Yeah, I heard. Did Peter really save you?” 

Stiles can hear the doubt in Scott’s voice and sees it in his eyes. He hates the tone of Scott’s _really_. “He did. He walked into a burning building for me.” The truth of these words still fill Stiles with so many emotions. Peter cast aside his trauma to save Stiles and his Dad. It’s something so brave to do. He’s quite sure Peter won’t see it like this, but Stiles will tell him it was brave anyway. 

“Well, I’m glad to see you are alright,” Scott says, shifting his weight. 

_Alright. Alright on the outside, maybe_ , Stiles thinks. “Hm. What are you planning to do about Gerard?” he asks bluntly. 

“Well, firstly, we all have to stay calm, alright? We’ll think about it. Talk. But … later,” Scott says. 

The spark of rage is sudden and surprisingly violent. “Later?! Are you serious?! He set our house on fire and told me it’s supposed to be a warning! He’s out there, plotting his war. He hates werewolves, Scott. And Peter was right, we can’t let him walk around, endangering everyone. No matter what you do or say, he will never change his mind! Isn’t what happened to me and my Dad enough for you?” 

Scott takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry this happened. I really am. But … we can’t be like him, right? We have to be better. And despite everything … he is a human being. We can’t just tear him to shreds, Stiles. Maybe, if we talk to him …” 

“Again?!” Stiles asks incredulously. “We already did talk to him! How often do you want to learn it’s no use talking to someone that hateful and murderous? Scott, he tried to kill us! The only reason I’m still here is Peter!” 

Scott frowns. “Stiles …”

“No. Don’t _Stiles_ me! you listen now! You will get someone killed with this behaviour, I swear, Scott. You will get someone killed. Why can’t you listen to Derek or Peter for once? They are born werewolves, they know how to play this game. Beacon Hills has been their home for ages, they should be allowed to protect it. They know how to protect it! And you … you endanger them and everyone here, because you don’t want to change anything, you don’t want to learn!” 

Scott narrows his eyes. He still sounds calm, but he looks slightly angry now. “You are confused, Stiles. I get that. You have been through a lot. Just … Rest and we will talk about what to do later, okay?” 

Stiles sighs. It’s futile. Apparently, this wasn’t enough. Apparently, worse things have to happen. And that really hurts. He glares at Scott and raises a finger. “Listen, Scott. If Gerard and his goons hurt anyone else I care about, it will be on you. And you will pay. Remember that, Scott.” 

Scott frowns at him. But he doesn’t say anything. He just turns and leaves. 

Stiles stares after him, feeling very sad and tired. His best friend … When did they stop to work like a team? It feels like there is a wall between them. Maybe, Scott still sees the shadow Stiles who put the sword into him and caused Allison’s death. Maybe, things will never be the same and every part of Stiles should make peace with that. Maybe. 

Stiles puts his shoes on. He has to go and see Peter.  
  


* * *

When Stiles enters Peter’s room, the werewolf is up and fighting with the buttons of his shirt. 

Stiles blinks in surprise. “What are you doing?” 

“Well, what does it look like? I’m leaving,” Peter grits out, glaring at his bandaged hands like they are some pesky, disgusting insects. 

Stiles frowns. “But … your hands. They still aren’t healed.” _And if his hands aren’t healed, I guess his back isn’t either_ , he thinks to himself. 

Peter shrugs. “I can heal at home. I am not going to stay here a moment longer.” 

“Peter …” 

“I’ll be fine, Stiles,” Peter snaps, with more than just a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

Stiles closes his mouth. 

He watches as Peter puts his shoes on, wincing more than once. He fiddles with the laces and Stiles is on the edge of offering his help, but he doesn’t. He has the feeling that Peter would be incredibly offended right now, if someone offered to tie his shoelaces. So he just waits. 

It takes too long. Peter’s face is a certain angry shade of red when he’s finished and Stiles is sure the flush doesn’t only come from the effort. Peter glances at him, but quickly looks away again, getting up and straightening. “Goodbye, Stiles,” he says. 

“Uh. Bye. I … Thanks, again.” 

Peter nods. Then he leaves, passing Melissa who looks after him surprised. She looks at Stiles, arching a brow. “Well, someone’s in a hurry.” 

Stiles sighs. “Yeah. He’s not talking about why, but I can guess.” He thinks of the many years Peter has been trapped inside his mind, not able to move or talk, forced to just lay there and endure everything that happened to his body. It must have been hell. And this … being in the hospital again, undoubtedly made a lot of terrible memories surfacing. 

“I get it’s not pleasant for a werewolf to have to accept help, but he should have stayed at least two days more,” Melissa says, shaking her head. “His hands haven’t healed enough yet, to exclude complications.” 

Stiles scrunches his nose and wraps his arms around himself anxiously. “Yeah. He’s saying he’s fine, but I don’t like it.” I know this kind of I’ll be fine, he thinks. He said it himself often enough, always knowing, it was actually a lie. 

* * *

Stiles is really glad to see his Dad sitting in bed and reading in a book. He looks way better now. 

Hopefully, he can leave the hospital soon too. Stiles is already cleared and Peter … Well, Peter released himself. Stiles feels a new hint of worry at that. He is going to check on Peter soon, when he was able to go home and fetch some - oh. 

Their house … They can’t live in it right now, can they? Where are they going to stay? 

Stiles hasn’t even thought about that yet. 

“Don’t worry,” his Dad says and smiles halfheartedly. “We’ll find a solution, right? Melissa said we can maybe move in with her and Scott for a while …”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. After the … tensions between them lately, he isn’t fond of the thought to share a sleeping room and the bathroom with Scott. 

His phone vibrates and Stiles jumps a little. It’s a message from Peter. Stiles looks at it surprised. 

_Stiles. Can you come to my apartment?_

A short moment passes in which Stiles comprehends the word, when his phone vibrates again. 

_Only if it is possible, of course._

Stiles arches his brows. The worry comes back. Why would Peter ask him to come so shortly after he left the hospital in a hurry? Did something happen? Does the werewolf need help? No matter what this is about, he already knows he has to go and see. He estimates how long it will take to get to Peter’s apartment from here, then he types 

_I’ll be there in half an hour._

Peter answers almost immediately. 

_Thank you._

This …. only manages to make the worry grow. Stiles puts his phone away and clears his throat. “Uh, I have to go. Will you be alright, Dad?” 

Noah arches a brow, but he nods. “Sure.” 

Stiles doesn’t waste more time. He leaves the hospital with fast steps, wondering what kind of situation he will find at Peter’s apartment.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles knocks at the door of Peter’s apartment, slightly out of breath. It has taken him less than half an hour to get there after all. But now, his throat is reminding him of the terrible amount of smoke he has inhaled not that long ago. Stiles coughs, grimaces at the feeling of dryness and scratchiness, and knocks again. “Peter? I’m here.”

There is a moment of silence. Then Peter calls from the inside, “I can’t open the door. Do you have a key?” 

Stiles blinks. “You can’t open? Why can’t you open the door?” 

He can practically hear the eyeroll in Peter’s voice when the wolf yells, “Do you have a key or not?” 

“Well. Yeah,” Stiles says, a bit dumbfounded. He has keys to every house and every apartment of the pack members. Just for cases of emergencies. Everyone - well, almost everyone - knows about it. Stiles pulls out the set of keys, feeling midly ashamed. But only mildly. After all, that he already had a key for Peter's apartment is going to pay off now. He fumbles for the right one, opening the door and almost tripping over a shoe. He frowns down at it. Is that one of Peter’s shoes? He doubts it, because it is just a cheap black boot. 

Stiles mentally shrugs. He turns around a corner and -

He stumbles over a lifeless body on the floor. 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Stiles yells, jumping backwards and reaching for his chest. He feels like his heart has just faltered a beat. Or two. “Jesus, what the - Peter!” 

“Stiles!” Peter calls back in return, arching his brow. He is sitting on the floor of his kitchen, leaning against the counter. He is bleeding sluggishly from a laceration at his head and looks uncharacteristically dishevelled. 

Stiles looks from Peter to the body, back to Peter. “Why is there a body in your apartment,” he grits out, his eyes flickering to the lifeless man on the floor again. Could be a hunter, with his dark clothes, the bittersweet smell coming off him - wolfsbane - and the knife tied to his leg. Yeah. Must be a hunter. What the hell. 

“I am fine, just in case you are wondering,” Peter says dryly. “And he isn’t dead. Don’t worry. I just made him sleep for a long while. So we can talk to him later.” 

“Talk to him,” Stiles repeats, blinking. He nudges the hunter with the tip of his shoe and the man doesn’t react. “What the hell happened, Peter?” he hisses, but actually, he can imagine pretty well, what must have happened. “Did he wait for you here?” he asks, a lump forming in his throat. 

“No. He must have followed me when I came here,” Peter says, something like anger flicking over his face. Anger and … humiliation. “I didn’t notice.” _I should have_ , is what he doesn’t add, but Stiles gets it. “Damn,” he murmurs, nudging the man again, harder this time. Just because he can. “You think he’s one of Gerard’s goons?” 

“Most likely, yes,” Peter nods. 

Only now Stiles notices the ropes on the floor. They curl around the legs of a chair, like snakes. He also notices a pack of matches. Stiles’ stomach revolts again and rage shakes him. No way … The next moment, Peter’s words confirm the image that forms in Stiles’ mind.

“He tied me to a chair and wanted to set me on fire. Very unoriginal if you ask me. Uncreative. Fortunately, he is not Gerard but an idiot and didn’t use wolfsbane laced ropes. I broke free and managed to knock him out. I would have tied him up already, but … Well.” Peter shrugs and slowly raises his hands. Stiles winces when he sees the blood, coloring the bandages pink. Peter must have torn his stitches. “Fuck,” he mutters. 

“Yeah,” Peter says, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. “Fuck …” 

There is an awkward moment of silence, and Stiles can hear Peter’s breaths. They are a bit faster than usually.

Stiles shifts his weight. "So, are you ..."

“I am fine," Peter snarls, his eyes still closed. 

“You are not,” Stiles sighs. “Your hands. Your head …” 

“It’s nothing.”  
  
“Peter. If it’s nothing, why did you call me?” Stiles bites, arching his brows.

Peter slowly opens his eyes. He looks like he is thinking hard. Maybe he's trying to find an explanation that won't make him look weak. But in the end, Peter just sighs in defeat. “I hoped you would help me. My hands … They are practically useless. We need to bind and gag the hunter. We also need to find out where Gerard is and what he is planning next.” Peter looks away, avoiding Stiles’ glance. 

Silence. Ah. Stiles knows that kind of silence all too well.  
  
“There is more. Come on. Spit it out,” he urges, crossing his arms. “Spit it out, Big Bad, or I am not going to move a single finger.” 

Peter grits his teeth. 

Stiles waits. He can be patient. 

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait for long. 

“Fine,” Peter spits out, still not looking at Stiles. “Fine. I need to take a bath. I need to get the stink of hospital off my body. I barely can smell anything else. And … I need someone here while I’m vulnerable. My wolf can’t stand it, Stiles. He is going to freak out, especially after what happened with that hunter. He is already on the edge ... He doesn't even want me to open the door.” 

Peter stops there, but the meaning of this floats between them, clear and haunting. Peter has so little functioning pack bonds, he is healing way too slowly for a werewolf, and his wolf is alarmed because there is an enemy in his territory and because Peter can't really defend himself. 

Stiles nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Peter blinks.

“Yeah. Okay. Sure I’m going to help. With all of this,” Stiles says. He scratches the back of his head and thinks. “Uh, why don’t you go into your bathroom and I take care of this idiot? I learned some pretty good knots, when I was in a scout camp. I still know them.” Stiles has a brief thought of how messed up it is that he is seriously thinking about tying someone up. But he quickly pushes it away. This is serious. This is war. Gerard and his hunters are after everyone associated with the werewolves of Beacon Hills. And wars aren’t pretty. People have to do ugly things in war. It's not like he's killing that man. He's just going to make sure he won't hurt anyone.

Peter nods. He gets up slowly, his body tense and the crease between his eyes deep. He drags his body towards the bathroom, without any of his usual grace.

Stiles can see dried blood on the wall, where Peter's head touched it.

He sighs and decides to take care of the hunter first, grabs the ropes and remembers the knots. He ties the man’s wrists together behind his back and does the same with his ankles. His eyes fall on the box of matches, and for a brief moment, something inside Stiles imagines how it would be like, to set the hunter on fire. How it would feel like, to see someone else getting hurt for once.

Stiles shakes that off a bit horrified and fetches some tissues, paper towel and a bowl he can fill with water. He scrubs the splotches of red away as best as he can, before going to join Peter in the bathroom.

* * *

When Stiles enters, Peter is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring at his hands like they are cursed. Or disgusting insects. 

Stiles stops on the doorstep, briefly closing his eyes, then covering them with his hands. “Aaaand you are naked. Of course you are naked. Peter, why are you naked?!” 

Peter looks up, frowning. His clothes are scattered on the floor. “Oh. Excuse me, Stiles. I’m a born werewolf. We don’t care much about nudity. Sometimes, I just forget about it,” he mutters.

Stiles scrunches his nose. “I see. Just like you don’t care much about personal space,” he says dryly. He looks around - but not at Peter. He’s definitely not looking at Peter’s perfectly formed body, no. He’s not. - and reaches for a towel, throwing it into Peter’s direction. “Do you have a first aid kit anywhere?” he asks while the werewolf is covering the lower half of his body with the towel. 

Peter’s brows wander up high. “Werewolf, Stiles,” he says pointedly. 

“Yeah. Right,” Stiles sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s getting mildly annoyed now. He has a passed out, tied up hunter in the apartment and a stubborn naked werewolf in the bathroom, for God’s sake. “Okay. Wait here. Don’t move!” 

“Alright, Mum,” Peter murmurs and closes his eyes. Now that Stiles really looks at him, he notices how pale Peter is. His skin barely stands out against the white tiles and Stiles thinks he can see drops of sweat gathering on his forehead. He really doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like how sluggish Peter’s movements are and how weak he seems to be. But he can understand why Peter doesn’t want to be in the hospital. He’s just going to help as best as he can. 

Stiles just fetches some clean tissues again. He actually finds some unused plasters in his bag, and remembers some kid gave them to him. They have butterflies all over them. Stiles mentally shrugs. He returns to the bathroom and turns on the water, before he starts to clean the bloody laceration at the back of Peter’s head, that still hasn’t closed. 

When he touches it with the wet tissue, Peter growls in the back of his throat and flinches back. 

“Don’t be a baby,” Stiles mutters and cleans the wound with the wet tissues as best as possible. Even though the wound is going to close eventually, Stiles thinks it wouldn’t be nice to have the skin growing over dirt. He pulls out the plasters and Peter’s eyes widen. Stiles chuckles. “Yes. There really are little butterflies on these. And it’s going right on your head,” he says, putting one of the plasters on Peter’s wound carefully. 

Peter growls again. 

“Let me guess, if I tell anyone about this, I’m dead?” Stiles asks, grinning as he inspects his work. 

Peter just glares. It is what he can do really well. Like he has practised it all his life. 

Just to fuck with Peter, Stiles asks, “How many fingers?” and holds up three of them. 

“Really Stiles?” Peter hisses, rolling his eyes. 

Stiles chuckles. He pours some body wash into the bathtub and throws the bloodied tissues into the bin. He tests the temperature of the water and nods, satisfied there is a lot of foam forming on the surface now. Certainly enough to hide everything that’s going to be underwater. Good. “Your bath is all set, your majesty. Will you be able to get in by yourself?” 

Peter just mutters something under his breath and carelessly drops the towel on the floor, getting into the bathtub - probably not as graceful as he wants to. Stiles can’t keep himself from throwing a very quick glance at Peter’s backside, then blushes and hides his face by acting like he is inspecting Peter’s remarkable collection of soaps. 

Peter makes a soft noise when he slips into the water. He is holding his hands over the surface and when Stiles sees the dirty bandages, he makes a mental note to get fresh bandages from somewhere soon. Can werewolves develop sepsis?

Stiles sits on the closed toilet lid and clasps his hands together. “Why did you call me? Not, uh, Derek? You two are related after all.” 

Something strange flicks over Peter’s face. “I didn’t want to bother my nephew. I am sure he has better things to do,” he murmurs. 

“Oh, but it is okay to bother me?” Stiles asks, arching a brow. Peter opens his mouth for a retort, but instead of words a gasp comes over his lips. It sounds pained. Stiles realises it is because of his back. The injuries must still be tender. He shakes his head. “You should go back to the hospital …” 

“No!” Peter snarls surprisingly loud and sharp, and Stiles jumps a little. Peter sighs and repeats, a bit softer, “No. I can’t go back.” 

“Alright,” Stiles says. He gets up and sits on the edge of the bathtub, reaching for a shampoo that promises to smell like almond and vanilla.

Peter frowns. “What are you doing?” 

“I was going to wash your hair,” Stiles says and shrugs. “You can’t do it with your hands, right?” 

Peter blinks. He looks surprised. “I appreciate the concern, but … You don’t have to.” 

Stiles smiles. “No. It’s fine. I can do it. I want to.” 

“Really?” 

“We are friends. That’s what friends do. Taking care of each other. You took care of me too, remember?” Stiles asks, squeezing shampoo into his hand. “Now shut up and tilt your head back.” 

“Thank you, Stiles. This means a lot to me,” Peter breathes and does as he’s told, at least for once.   
  
  


* * *

[Back then]

Stiles feels like a stone. 

He doesn’t want to get out of bed. Not today. Not ever again. 

He just wants to lie here and forget. He wants to stop thinking. He wants to dissolve in the nothingness. 

The universe has other plans. It sends Peter. 

Later, Stiles won’t even be able to figure out how Peter managed to get into the room. But he is there suddenly, standing in front of the bed, his arms crossed. He wrinkles his nose. “You should take a shower, sweetheart.” 

“Piss off,” Stiles groans and hides under his blanket, pressing his face into the pillow. “I am so not sorry I am offending your precious nose. You don’t have to stay here and smell my misery, idiot,” he mutters. 

Peter tuts, of course hearing every word Stiles says, no matter how much it’s muffled by the pillow. “Now, that’s not nice. You missed our appointment.” 

Is it really Friday again? Shit … He doesn’t even know what to say. Silence settles in, only broken by the unnerving ticking of the clock and Stiles’ own thoughts, trying to tell him he is a pathetic, useless pile of nothing no one cares about. 

Peter clears his throat. The noise is very loud in the room. “Have you eaten anything today?” 

“Too tired,” Stiles grunts into the pillow. Food. Ugh. 

Peter hums. 

Another moment passes. 

Then, Peter grips the blanket and pulls, exposing Stiles’ curled up body. 

“Hey!” Stiles yells, trying to pull the blanket back. But Peter’s grip is too strong. “What are you doing!” 

“You smell like old socks. Go and take a shower. I’ll make you something to eat. Something that is not greasy pizza,” Peter says, wrinkling his nose when he eyes the three empty pizza cartons on the floor. 

Stiles’ face heats up. He glares at Peter and wraps his arms around himself. He is only wearing a thin, old shirt and shorts. It is cold. “You asshole. Why can’t you just leave me alone like everyone else?!” Like everyone else … Wow. That one hurt. But it’s true. 

He has spent three days like this. Alone, barely leaving his bed, eating nothing but pizza, checking his phone now and then, just in case … 

No one has texted or called him. Not even Scott. Or Lydia. 

It’s almost like I don’t exist, Stiles thinks. Well, at least not for _them_. I do exist for my Dad. And Derek. And Peter. That’s not no one. 

Stiles sighs. He gets up on heavy legs and his head protests, sending him some aching pulses. He runs a hand through his hair and grimaces at how it feels. Tired and greasy. Ignoring Peter, he makes his way to the bathroom on bare feet, avoiding looking into the mirror. He already knows he looks terrible, thank you very much.

He just sheds his clothes, throws them onto the floor carelessly and steps into the shower cubicle. 

Stiles has to admit to himself that the water feels heavenly on his body. So warm. He just stands there for long moments, leaning against the wall and letting the water cascading over his body, his eyes closed and head tilted back. 

He wishes he could enjoy it more than he does. Wishes, he could get rid of the heaviness in his mind and body, trying to pull him down. But when it comes, it is reluctant to leave. Stiles guesses it is like a depressive episode. He read about this. 

When it hits, nothing seems to be important anymore. Life stops making sense. Food tastes like ash and sleep is an escape but hard to get, cause the thoughts can’t stop running and all he manages are intervals of restless sleep, mixed with phases of being awake and hating it. 

Stiles guesses he should be seeing a therapist. But who could understand what he’s been going through? He can’t go to someone and tell them something along the lines "and then a dark fox demon called Nogitsune possessed me and did unspeakable things to everyone important to me", right? Right. 

He sighs and turns the water off. 

When Stiles steps out of the shower, shivering and reaching for a towel, he smells soup. Chicken broth. The familiar scent floats towards him from downstairs. He follows it timidly. 

Peter is in the kitchen, stirring in a steaming pot and humming under his breath. He sniffs when Stiles enters and smiles. “Ah. Much better.” 

Stiles snorts. He slumps on a chair and supports his head on his hands, watching Peter moving around like he is owning the kitchen, as though he isn’t here for the first time today. 

Stiles runs a finger over a crack in the wood of the table. “Peter. What are you doing here?” 

“I am taking care of my packmate,” Peter says calmly. He tastes the soup and frowns, opening a drawer and reaching for some spices. 

Something warm stirs inside Stiles’ chest. It is nice to be reminded he is still someone’s pack. Though, he isn’t so sure anymore, which pack that is. Is it Peter’s own? But a pack requires an Alpha right? Stiles mentally shrugs. Whatever this is, he is glad Peter cares about him, although he is so pathetic and weak and …

“Stiles,” Peter says, “Stop that.” 

Stiles looks up and frowns. “What?” 

“Stop telling yourself lies. It is pulling you down even more. I can feel it through our bond,” Peter explains, stirring the soup some more. 

Stiles blinks. “Really? What does it feel like?” 

“Heavy. Grey. Sad. My wolf wants to make you feel better so the bond stops feeling like that,” Peter explains. 

“Huh. Only … only your wolf?” Stiles asks, his face starting to heat up a bit. 

Peter smiles. He tastes the soup again and nods, finally satisfied. “No,” he says, while pouring the liquid into a bowl and handing it to Stiles, who takes it hesitantly. “Not only my wolf, sweetheart.” 

He sits opposite Stiles, watching him eat. 

The soup tastes good. It doesn’t fill him too much and it warms him up from the inside. Stiles actually enjoys it. “Thank you,” he says, when he’s finished. 

Peter smiles. It is one of his rare sincere and bright smiles. The one that makes his eyes shine even bluer. “You are very welcome. Now, how do you feel about a match of chess?” 

  
  


* * *

[Now]

Peter’s hair is surprisingly soft. It feels good to run his fingers through it. It is kind of … soothing, Stiles thinks. 

After a while, Peter starts to make sounds. Stiles isn’t even sure he is making them on purpose. It sounds like a sub-vocal purr. 

Stiles feels like this is something special. That Peter allows himself to relax like this, laying on his back in the water, with his eyes closed and throat bared, is special. He is vulnerable like this, and he chooses to be. 

_I’m the only one he trusts with this_ , Stiles realizes. _I came to him when I needed someone to trust me, and now he comes to me. He has seen me in some of my worst moments. And now I see him in one of his. And it’s okay._

Actually, Stiles can’t remember he has ever seen Peter that relaxed. Has never seen him so soft and content.

Stiles’ feels warm and it doesn’t only come from the steam the hot water causes. 

While washing Peter’s hair, he almost forgets that there is a tied up hunter in the apartment. Almost forgets Gerard and that he was almost burned alive. Almost. 

“Thank you, Stiles,” Peter says when he’s done rinsing the shampoo out. "I am feeling much better now."

Stiles shrugs and rubs his hands together. The skin is wrinkled from all the water. And soft. “This is nothing. You … You ran into a burning building for me.” 

“And I would do it again. Any time,” Peter tells him, his expression completely serious. 

Stiles hums. He watches as Peter sits up carefully, taking care his hands don’t come into contact with the water. He still groans quietly when he pulls the injuries on his back.

“I wish I could take your pain,” Stiles says. The ability to take someone else’s pain is one of things he really admires about werewolves. He probably would do that all the time. He hates to see someone he cares about in pain. 

Peter smiles. “You are already doing so much. You being here and helping me is enough.” 

Stiles shakes his head. He continues to stare at his hands. “But that’s exactly it. I am not enough. You are not healing properly. I did a shitty job at being a stable packbond,” he mutters, looking away. 

“That’s not true, Stiles. Our bond is stable. You know how I can tell? I felt your fear through it. I could feel it miles away.” 

Stiles looks up, surprised. “What?” 

Peter nods. “I could feel you were in fear and in danger. And my wolf reacted to it. He wanted to get to you as fast as possible. You can feel such things only through strong bonds, trust me.” 

Stiles blinks. “Okay, wow. So … Is there another reason why you are not healing faster?” 

“Oh, I think the wolfsbane in the ropes and the air did a good enough job. And maybe the fact that I’m simply tired,” Peter says, smiling weakly. 

“Tired of life,” Stiles says. Because he knows the feeling Peter is referring to. Tired of a life that throws bricks at them. 

Peter nods. “Yes.” 

“We need a vacation,” Stiles says grimly, standing up and stretching. 

Peter chuckles. “Vacation. That sounds nice. But first, we have to take care that everyone is safe.” 

Right. The hunters. Gerard. Stiles’ mood immediately darkens. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Everyone. Even Scott.” Even Scott, who is acting like an idiot right now. Even Scott, who probably would get himself killed otherwise. Even Scott, who still refuses to learn. Well. Maybe he will, after this. 

He looks at Peter and quickly looks away again, because all the foam is gone - he didn’t even notice - and Peter is about to get up. First, the werewolf chuckles when he notices Stiles’ reaction but then, he makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat. “Stiles.” 

“Hm?” Stiles glimpses at Peter, who raises his hands and arches his brows. “You have to help me.” 

“Oh. Uh. Yeah. Of course. Wait …” Stiles looks around and reaches for a big towel, turning towards Peter. How exactly are they going to do this without landing in the bathtub together? Peter is not exactly a lightweight, with all his werewolf muscles. And with his hurt hands, he won’t really be able to hold on to Stiles. 

Well, there aren’t that many options. “This might get uncomfortable,” Stiles warns Peter and grabs him under his arms. “I am going to pull as strong as I can and you are going to try to get on your feet without slipping, alright? I don’t want to fall on you.” 

“I really don’t understand why not,” Peter says, his lips twitching. But he nods. 

Stiles rubs his hands dry on his pants and grabs him, pulling. “Holy …,” he huffs. “You are heavy!” 

Peter only snorts and heaves the rest of his body up, almost really slipping, but able to balance himself and slowly standing up, supported by Stiles. 

Stiles gets more than an eyeful. He throws the towel over Peter, telling him to hold it. “I don’t get why you feel the constant need to hide my perfect body under fuzzy towels, but okay,” Peter says and smirks, pressing the towel to his front with his bandaged hands. 

Stiles rolls his eyes, hoping his blush can be explained with the humidity in the bathroom. “Shut up, Big Bad.” 

* * *

“Where is he?” Peter growls, his fangs right in front of the hunter’s face and his eyes glowing. “What is he planning?”

Stiles watches the whole ordeal, sipping tea from a tiny china cup he found in one of Peter’s drawers. He tries not to cackle at the fact that Peter still has the butterfly plaster on his wound while threatening the man tied to a chair.

He has to give the hunter credit for being so stoic. Stiles certainly wouldn’t manage to make such a straight face with an angry, shifted werewolf right in front of him.

Peter apparently thinks it’s time for a change in tactics, because he gives the hunter a push and makes him fall backwards on the chair. The man makes a startled noise. 

Peter puts a foot on the hunter’s chest. “If you don’t tell me, I am going to crack your ribs,” he threatens. “And after that, I am going to bite your fingers off. One by one.” 

Stiles’ stomach revolts a little at that mental image. Yeah, he’s definitely not going to watch that. That sounds like there will be a lot of blood. He will take a walk and search for a first aid kit, cause Peter’s bandages are even more dirty now. 

The hunter glares up at Peter, but there is a hint of fear in his eyes now. 

Peter grins at him and presses a little harder with his foot. “I am going to count to three. One.” 

The hunter squirms. Stiles forgets to close his mouth. 

“Two.” 

“I don’t know!” the hunter finally calls out. That’s the first time he uses his voice. “I don’t know where exactly he is, I just wanted to be paid by him!” 

“Paid,” Peter repeats, frowning. Apparently, the hunter is telling the truth, because the werewolf releases some of the pressure on the man's chest. 

“Yes, he said anyone who can kill one of the werewolves in Beacon Hills will be paid generously. The hunters have a list. A list with names, pictures and bounties!” 

“Wow,” Stiles says dryly. “A freaking list. So what, Gerard’s great plan is to motivate the hunters to kill every wolf, not only the blue-eyed bad ones, with money?! Very original.” 

“You don’t understand,” the hunter says, glaring at Stiles. “He’s not just giving the list to hunters.” 

Oh. Stiles immediately gets a bad feeling about this. 

It is confirmed, when the next moment, the hunter tells them, “He’s showing and telling everyone. Soon, maybe tomorrow, everyone will know about werewolves and everyone will want to hunt you.” The hunter grins. “He said he has caught an exemplar to show everyone what monsters you really are. He also has a lot of weapons. And when Beacon Hills is finally freed, we are going to tell the whole world. With such an army, we will be unstoppable and we will finally wipe out your disgusting kind and everyone who supports you, betraying their own people.” The man laughs madly and spits out.

Stiles swallows and looks at Peter, who meets his worried gaze, a surprised and angry scowl on his face. 

Well. Shit. 


End file.
